


undo this storm and wait

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia swings.</p>
<p>Parrish sidesteps and deflects. </p>
<p>Her momentum carries her across and she stumbles on her own two feet, but she’s quickly wrapped up in his arms. It’s a steadying touch -- she knows that -- but she has to gulp in a breath to clear the not-so-innocent thoughts from her mind.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Lydia + Parrish + (ง'̀-'́)ง + sex basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	undo this storm and wait

**Author's Note:**

> ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ
> 
> i listened to ‘thousand eyes’ by of monsters and men on repeat for this shit, hence the title.

Lydia swings.

Parrish sidesteps and deflects.

Her momentum carries her across and she stumbles on her own two feet, but she’s quickly wrapped up in his arms. It’s a steadying touch -- she _knows_ that -- but she has to gulp in a breath to clear the not-so-innocent thoughts from her mind.

“It’s okay to be mad,” he says.

“I’m not _mad._ Frustrated isn’t the same as mad,” she snaps. Frustrated is the only way to tag the emotions skipping under her skin, really; physically, mentally, _sexually_. All the frustration types is Lydia, boiled down into her thickest essence, because she’s not sure how much longer she can watch the sweat bead on Parrish’s skin before she combusts.

She twists out of his arms, and brings her fists up like he taught her, backs up two steps. “Fight me,” she says. She silently concedes that the real fight here seems to be entirely internal. “I’m ready.”

Parrish inclines his head, and shifts into his stance. He does it as easy as he breathes. The serious look he wears makes her heart pound, so different from the reverent, gentle ones they exchange.

Anyone else she knows would have laughed, or smiled, at her request, her _demand_.

Lydia Martin: petite, survivor, prom queen, perpetually underestimated by all. But not him.

“What are you waiting for?” he prompts, and really, what _is_ she waiting for?

The bout lasts longer than the previous, and she lands two solid punches to his kidneys before she’s spun and brought to her knees, her left arm twisted up behind her back. She grimaces, on the cusp of tapping out, but muscle memory takes over and suddenly she’s levering Parrish up and over -- a surge of unknown power and fury giving her the strength to heft his weight. She leaps to her feet, a scream at her throat, wanting nothing more in that moment to rend and tear and _hurt._

He lands on his back with a surprised grunt, and the trance over her breaks, the frightening anger leaking out of her bones all at once.

“Ow,” he moans.

She stares at him with a mixture of surprise, excitement and horror. Excitement, because she used his move against him successfully. Surprise and horror, because she tossed him clear across the room and doesn’t know _how_ she did it.

She rushes to his side. “Parrish! Are you okay?”

He sits up with a little laugh, which she’s sure is entirely for her benefit. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s some super strength there, Wonder Woman.”

“I’m not… I -- I don’t even know how I _did_ that, I just did it,” she explains, staring at her hands like they might sketch out the reason for her sudden berserker moment. _One more unwanted side effect,_ she thinks. _One more daunting, unknown facet of being a banshee unlocked._

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks, and when she lifts her eyes, that soft look his back on his face. It’s almost too much.

She wants to kiss him. She can’t think of a time when she’s wanted to kiss someone so badly. If she’s being honest, she’s been thinking about doing it, and more, for a long time. Her gaze dips down to his lips, back up to his gorgeous green eyes. His hand is gripping his knee hard, knuckles white, and there’s a strain around his mouth like he’s dying to say something.

_Do you want to kiss me, too?_ she thinks, and then the thought doesn’t matter because she crawls into his lap, screw the consequences, and presses her mouth to his. It feels like a spark meeting kindling and gasoline, dangerous and heady and perfect. She gasps against him and they share kisses that grow hungry and out of control in a heartbeat; heat pools in her gut as he drags his hand across her back, restless, like she’s scalding him.

She twists her hands up in his hair and tilts her head, capturing his mouth for a kiss before he trails sucking, bruising kisses down her neck.

“Oh,” she breathes, wrapped in a shroud of arousal so thick she’s not entirely sure what to do. She’s used to being in control, but she feels like she’s hanging off a precipice now, grinding down into Parrish’s lap and letting her hands wander as his teeth flash against her throat and clavicle. It’s magnificent, but she wants, _needs_ , more. “Jordan --”

He draws back, panting against the soft skin of her neck. “I love it when you say my name,” he admits quietly. His hands slip down to her hips, his palms warm and strong against her. “I don’t think I’m supposed to.”

She swallows, understanding exactly what he means. There’s an age gap, she’s leaving for college soon, and she may or may not be falling in love with Jordan Parrish, and he may or may not be falling, too. “I think you are,” she replies. Her voice is strangled. “I really like you.”

He remains silent for a beat, and she can _feel_ him thinking over what to say next. She squeezes her arms around him, feeling like she would shatter if he told her he _can’t,_ or won’t. It’s not about getting what she wants, this time, but she can’t imagine letting him go.

“What if we just hung out?” she offers, finally, when his silence gets too much to contend with. They’ve done that before; take-away from around the corner and a movie, her curled up on the opposite corner of his couch, waking up the next morning with a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She’s seen him padding around, barefoot, getting ready for his morning shift. It was domestic, perfect -- and exactly where the frustration began.

“If that’s what you want to do,” he says.

_You know what I want_ , she thinks, but says “Absolutely” instead.

She showers first, and orders Thai while he’s taking his turn. When he emerges, they queue up a movie and discuss her newest finds in the bestiary while they wait for dinner. She carefully skirts over the surge of strength she felt during their spar, not wanting to relieve the dark power she felt when she upended him.

“It didn’t feel… right,” she says, trying to put into words the unexplainable. “I wanted to hurt you.”

His lips quirk down. “Do you think learning to fight is triggering something in you?”

“Maybe. Kira... Kira said she had to _unlock_ her healing abilities through pain. What if banshees -- what if _I_ have something similar? But fear or pain invokes some berserker strength instead of healing?”

“I’d believe almost any theory at this point.”

“Ha. It could be causation. Fighting equals fear and pain equals strength.”

He looks away. “Do I -- am I hurting you?”

She bites her bottom lip, realizing with a touch of regret what she implied. If she still feels bad about tossing him, she imagines he wouldn’t feel great to know he’s been hurting her all these weeks. “Those joint control moves weren’t exactly _pleasant_ , but… it wasn’t _painful_. I know you’d never hurt me, Jordan. I trust you.”

He looks at her again, and that _look_ is back. The soft, curious one that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine nearly an hour ago. He reaches out, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin tingles from the proximity.

“Jordan,” she says, imploring him to understand how real this is, how real she feels. “I _trust_ you.”

This time, he kisses her. It’s slow and languid, like a burning ember; a complete contrast to the wildfire they were swept into before.

“I trust you, too,” he murmurs against her mouth, an answer.

They move to his bedroom, and Lydia’s breathless by the time she sinks onto his mattress. She’s never been shy before, but she ditches out of her clothes so quickly she has to attribute her haste with nerves. It’s different with him. It feels like it will _always_ be different with him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, like he’s reading every curve of her body, every inch of her anxiety, and she swallows, words too thick in her throat to speak aloud. She never knew she had a praise kink, but with Jordan -- his voice whispering sweet, reverent things is enough to make her rub her thighs together. It’s hardly relief.

“Touch me,” she pants, “please.”

He settles between her thighs with a sweet smile, and she shamelessly drops her knees to the side when he breathes softly against her. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Please,” she moans, and ghosts a shaking hand over his crown.

He parts her folds and presses the flat of his tongue against her clit, working a smooth rocking motion that has her bucking up against him immediately. He groans then, and the vibrations from his mouth sends an incredible punch of pleasure that leaves her gasping for breath. He continues on and on until she’s twisting and panting with the need to come, and when he slips a finger inside of her and curves it _just so_ , she does, breaking around him with a sweet, drawn out sigh.

“I want to ride you,” she says, when she’s recovered, and flips him onto his back to return the favor. She pauses. “If that’s alright with you, of course.”

He drags her up his thighs, his erection caught between their bellies. He shudders out a breath. “Whatever you want, Lydia -- whatever you want, I want.”

She smiles, her heart bursting with a fullness she doesn’t think she’s felt since -- since Allison.

After he rolls the condom on, she shifts her knees and moves up, properly straddling him. She’s wet enough that she doesn’t have to guide him at all, and she sinks down in increments, gasping at how _full_ she feels. Jordan’s fingers clench and unclench across her hips, and she starts a slow undulation that has both of them moaning.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, and that tether that keeps her in control almost snaps.

“Your _voice,_ ” she says, “I love your voice. Keep talking -- _please_.”

He does.

It doesn’t take long for her to come again, the shyness from before replaced with boldness, her fingers stroking a familiar circular pattern across her clit as Jordan rolls a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. He follows soon after, thrusting up into her after she’s fallen across his chest, and she feels a wave of another, milder orgasm flutter in her stomach.

They exchange smiles in the afterglow, but the moment is broken by the doorbell.

Jordan lifts his head from the pillow with a groan. “Can you believe I forgot about dinner?”

“Sex will do that,” she teases, and tosses his discarded sweatpants onto his chest. “Can you answer the door? I can’t put clothes on for another twenty minutes. It’s a rule.”

“A rule I can live with,” he replies, already up and hopping into a pant leg. He dips down to give her a kiss, and jogs out to answer the increasingly irate doorbell ringer.

Lydia tucks her face into a pillow with a smile.


End file.
